


Huff Puff

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M, easter fic, the ever-continuing saga of dating a hot guy with terrible taste
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 21:38:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19754287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: Portugal gives England an unusual Easter present.





	Huff Puff

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hoofae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoofae/gifts).



> Crossposted from my tumblr.

“You know that traditionally you give people _chocolate_ at Easter?” England asks. “Eggs. Sweets. Flowers. Maybe a pet bunny rabbit if you think the new owner will look after it responsibly.”

Portugal’s smile is an easy, natural thing, as though he _hasn’t_ just blithely deposited an abomination on his friend and lover’s lap with an innocent _Happy Easter_. “I gave you chocolate on _Dia dos Namorados_.” (Portugal had, in fact, given England a lot more than just _chocolate_ on Valentine’s Day, but even thinking along those lines again is beginning to make England’s ears turn red.) “You have many bunnies already, and I always give you desserts for your birthday, so! I found something new.”

England, still seated on his sofa with Portugal’s Easter gift sitting in his lap, regards his companion somewhat suspiciously, Portugal reclining comfortably on the sofa beside him, his arm thrown casually along the chair’s back. Despite knowing Portugal for a long, long, _long_ time, the other Nation is still capable of a cheerfully _bland_ look that is almost impossible for England to interpret.

Right now, England is attempting to work out whether Portugal is actually _serious_ about the present he has handed England and is looking for praise for his ‘good taste,’ or if Portugal is being a happily merciless friend and has handed over a joke gift.

A gift of a large blue teapot shaped like a puffer-fish is rather hard to fathom, even if England loves tea and tea-sets, and Portugal _is_ excessively fond of fish.

It’s still a hideous teapot.

“…A novelty teapot?” England tries a little weakly, because he really doesn’t want to be rude if this is a heartfelt gift. Portugal had looked so _proud_ of himself when England had unwrapped the puffer-fish, and, if it’s well-meant, the love and duties of friendship (and the desire to continue sleeping with this particular handsome idiot for the next decade and beyond) will require England to make pleased noises and display this teapot in some noticeable location so Portugal’s feelings won’t get hurt.

Portugal’s smile gets a little brighter, full of soft April sunshine. England feels like groaning at the sight of it. “Not just novelty, I think? The design allows for practical use.”

England is _never_ putting this teapot in his kitchen and using it. (For a start, none of his tea-cosies would fit over the fish’s tail.) “That’s…” he hunts vainly for an appropriate word, “nice?” Nice is good. “What ever made you buy it for me for Easter?”

“I saw it, and could not wait to give it to you.” England is touched. He thinks. And very distracted by Portugal’s hand, which has found its way along the sofa back, his fingers beginning to play very lightly with the fine hairs on the nape of England’s neck. “I wanted to see your face when you saw it.”

The sentiment is either _incredibly_ sweet, in which case England should probably give Portugal imminent kisses, or absolutely deserving of Portugal getting the piscine teapot dropped on his ridiculous head.

If only England could work out _why_ Portugal has given him this damn teapot.

Portugal’s hazel eyes are both bright and unreadable. “Do you like it?”

“…Ah,” says England, tightening his grip on the teapot in his lap. The pad of Portugal’s thumb keeps brushing along the side of England’s throat, slowly, and it’s scattering all the words out of England’s head. “It’s very original?”

Portugal’s lips twitch. “Inglaterra.”

England vainly ignores Portugal’s amused tone and questioning gaze. “I can’t say I have terribly many puffer-fish-themed items in my arsenal -”

“In-gla- _ter_ -ra.”

England gives up. It’s Easter, Portugal is being unfathomable, and the pretty pain-in-the-arse’s thumb is pressing lightly, teasingly, on England’s pulse. A man - even a Nation - can only take so much.

“Portugal. Why in the name of _God_ did you buy me a teapot shaped like a puffer-fish?!”

Portugal breaks as well. And laughs at him.

**Author's Note:**

> Please look at [this link](https://shachaai.tumblr.com/post/159654410064/brian-darling-figdays-puffer-fish-tea-pot) if you want to see the abomination.


End file.
